Ten Days Later, I Tell Dad I’m Injured

Ten Days Later, I Tell Dad I’m Injured

Dad fights with me when he arrives. At least, as much as he can fight a daughter sleepy from Hydrocodone and Valium, propped by pillows, and bound by Ace bandages and Velcro brace around the torso. His compassion keeps him pulling punches. He wrestles with my logic— my phone call delayed in light of the family’s pleasure, their one vacation of the year, the weak argument that there was nothing they could have done —and heartbreak: his first born did not call him immediately for help. She didn’t want him. Need him.

It will take motherhood—feeling the simultaneous ache of pride and anger at cultivated independence —to burden the impulse rushed by heartbeat to gather up, kiss wounds, repair a child. Dad finally said quietly, yes, there were some things he could have done, and then, as now, I love him for his anger.